Twisted Paths of Fate
by Soledad
Summary: A Second Age birthday fic, hobbitstyle. Please read the intro, people, it's there for a reason! Finished.
1. Chapter 1: Comfort

TWISTED PATHS OF FATE 

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:**

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

A VERY SHORT INTRODUCTION 

This story is being written as an answer to a birthday challenge, for those very supportive members of the Silmfics group who have encouraged my writings all the time. After Círdan had generously written a birthday fic for me two months earlier, I offered to follow the hobbit custom and write a birthday present for my friends until October.

Therefore, the individual chapters are dedicated to different members of the aforementioned group, according to the wishes their voiced. All events described in this story are canon – in the sense that you won't read here anything that would contradict any canon fact. Since we all understand something different under ''canon'', let me clarify: I consider ''canon'' everything that is in ''The Hobbit'' or in ''LOTR'', since these are the books Tolkien himself felt fit to publish. I usually follow the ''Silmarillion'' or ''Unfinished Tales'' for First and Second Age stuff, and often use things from the HoME-books, but with these, I allow myself a lot more freedom.

Please consider these before you put the label AU on my writings. They are not, and it's annoying when other people call them thus, just because our interpretation about ''canon'' happens to be different.

Otherwise, I hope you'll have fun with this one.

Soledad

**Disclaimer:**

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

**Rating:** PG-13, just to be on the safe side, since m/m interaction is implied.

**Dedication:** Chapter 1 is for Finch who wanted these two Elves to have a good time together.

**Author's notes:**

The name of Gil-galad's castle is courtesy of Aerlinnel. Gildor's Mum was christened by Artanis. Elrond's infamous hair is an investment of The Tired Scribe, though I lessened it a little. I don't know who has the ™ for the Erogenous Elven Ear.

Ah yes, and any influence from "The Lost Tales 1." has been embraced by choice.

Oh, and my heartfelt thanks to Cirdan for beta-reading.

CHAPTER ONE: COMFORT 

**[Mithlond, in the year 442 of the Second Age]**

Elrond had been sitting in the main hall of Mithlond's library since sunrise, hunched over his very own writing desk in focused silence, while his hand moved with smooth elegance along the finely-drawn lines on the parchment. Unlike other scribes, he preferred to write in a sitting position – he was often laughed at because of this peculiar habit, but he cared not. He found it easier to keep his writing even while sitting, not to mention that it made the creation of the exquisite miniature illustrations that opened every new page a lot easier.

And there was much work to do. The High King wanted his own library ready for transporting once his palace, Edenalphond above the port of Forlond was finished, and though _that work might take many more years yet to finish – several decades, in fact, in spite of the help of Dwarven stone masons – there were even more books and scrolls to copy._

Of course, on an ordinary day there would have been dozens of lesser scribes working on the same huge project, headed by Pengolod, the greatest lore-master still in Middle-earth. Only that this one was _not_ an ordinary day. It was the day of _Erulaitalë_(1), Midsummer's Eve, when the great Sea Festival, the biggest and merriest feast of Lindon, normally began. And though the Falathrim celebrated it in a very different fashion than the Men in Númenórë, it still _was their most important feast – one that lured in high-ranking guests from far-away Elven realms as well._

The opening ceremony, as always, would be held in the Sea Palace of Círdan the Shipwright – a place of great and strange beauty that had been the home of the Lord of the Falathrim ever since the change of the world. A most wondrous place it was, indeed, built in the likeness of the Lord Ossë's own home of old, back in Valinor, and with the help of _his_ vassals, or so it was told among the Falathrim.

Elrond, who came to live with the High King under Círdan's roof somewhat later, having spent a length of time with travelling across Middle-earth in the company of Eönwë, knew not how much of these rumours was truth and how much was pure legend. But indeed, though made of carved white stone, the Sea Palace's walls shimmered with the pearls that adorned them in intricate patterns mimicking seaweed and seashells; and it floors were paved grey-green in a wavy muster like sea-water; and its tapestries were like the glint of silver skins of fishes, showing their true colour only when the sunlight fell upon them in a particular vector. And its roof of white stone looked like the foam that crowned the waves.

There was a huge sea-gate under the palace, opening to the gulf of Lhún directly – though it might have been false to call it a _gate_, for it always stood wide open for the Sea, and it was said that the vassals of Ossë, the Oarni and the Falmaríni and even the long-tressed Wingildi often swam up the Gulf to the palace itself to visit the Shipwright.

The spirits of the foam and the surf of the ocean they were, often seen far away in the open waters, dancing and laughing while riding the crests of the great waves – but only during the Sea Festival did they come near the shores, filling the hearts of the gathering Elves with great joy and awe, with their music, laughter and weightless dance.

They did it for Círdan alone, whose eyes had once opened for the first glint of the new starlight in Cuiviénen. For Círdan, who never left the shores of Middle-earth, not even after the very shores at which he had spent his life had been drowned in the dark waves, even after so many of his kin had left, had been their friend ever since then, remaining on this side of the Sea, out of love to the endless ocean and its Lord. And his people, who stayed with him, became separated from other Elves for a very long time – in speech and custom, but above all else in their great love for the Sea.

And so, though Ereinion Gil-galad, son of Fingon(2), was _called_ High King of the Noldor, and several other Elven realms accepted his leadership, the Sea Festival was Círdan's privilege to hold. Gil-galad might have been the King of Elves, but Círdan was the Lord of the Falas, even if he accepted the young King voluntarily, and there was no one who would challenge his authority among his own borders. Ever. Compared to him, all Elven kings of Middle-earth were but children.

Only the golden Glorfindel, twice-born hero of the First Age and slayer of the Balrog was older than Círdan, and even he only by mere moments(3). But Glorfindel, having died and clad in new flesh, was restored to the youth of the Firstborn again, while Círdan had to live through all hardships of a long and hopeless war (_wars, to be more accurate) against the Dark Foe, without the light of the Two Trees rejuvenating both his _fëa_ and his _hröa_, and the passing of time, spent in Middle-earth in its entirety, left behind subtle changes, hidden deeply among his fine features._

One could not say that the Shipwright had _aged – not the same way as mortal Men, even the long-living Edain of Númenórë did – but the changes were there. A slight hardness of the thin lines around his mouth or in the corners of his sea-grey eyes… so subtle, indeed, that none else but Elrond noticed. He knew these signs. He had seen them on the face of his own brother._

Having been given the life-span many times of that of common Men, Elros Tar-Minyatur, King of Númenórë, aged very slowly – yet still with an alarming speed for Elven measures. A whole Age left hardly more than slight imprints on Círdan – but Elros grew old in a mere five hundred years… and now he was dead.

The message about his passing had come only a few days ago. Ever since then, Elrond could not cease contemplating their strange fates and the mystery of aging. He was still fairly young for an Elf – would he be dead, too, had he gone with his brother, choosing the Gift of Men as well? Or would they have different life spans, just as common mortals have?

There was no answer to these questions, and he knew that. He regretted not having chosen to remain among the Firstborn, and the terms on which his ways parted from those of his brother had not been the friendliest, yet – for the first time in his life – he felt utterly alone. Lonely. Empty.

He had chosen to be an Elf, yet he understood at last that he always would be different. More than a mortal, for sure, but not quite an Elf, either. For the blood of mortal Men flow in his veins, too, and noticing the passing of time on Círdan's face, who was one of the very Firstborn, made him realize that eventually he would begin to age, too. Slowly, gracefully, thank the inheritance of Melian, but eventually, he would. He might not die in mortal fashion, but should he remain in Middle-earth long enough, at the end he _would_ show his age.

The sound of light Elven footfall broke him out of his musings. Someone was coming to fetch him. He sighed and put the pen back into its holder. He would continue his work later. No matter how little he wanted to join the festivities, it was inevitable that people would miss him. He belonged to the royal court, after all. And his absence would be an insult, not against Círdan alone, but against the Lord Ossë himself.

For this was the only time of the _loa when the great and rather irritable Sea-Lord would show himself openly near the shores, in the company of his spouse, the Lady Uinen, escorted by the merry sea-spirits. Though it was whispered among the Falathrim that he often met Círdan secretly, in bays that were hidden from every one else's eyes, and that they would hold counsels among themselves, unknown to any others._

Elrond listened not to these rumours; in truth, he cared little what the true bond between Círdan and his great Lord was like. The Shipwright was his host and his teacher, just as he had been once Gil-galad's, and deserved his respect – a deep and honest respect that he gave willingly. Círdan remained an enigma for him, but not more so than Glorfindel, who had become so much more than a mere Elf after having returned from the dead – and whose closeness with Eönwë, Mightiest of the Maiar, was an other secret he was not eager to unlock.

Or the slight changes and increase of his own powers, resulted through the teachings of Eönwë, given him from mind to mind during their travels. The Herald of Manwë had explained him that the… enhancements were only possible because of the blood of Melian in his veins – and because he had chosen to remain among the Firstborn. But that answered not _what was happening to him – only __why._

If Glorfindel was more than a mere Elf, so was, in a lesser extent, Elrond himself. Yet at the same time, the mortal blood in his veins made him somewhat less than an average Elf. He could understand why Elros felt it too much trouble to live with all these different sides of his own nature and chose to become mortal ere the weight squashed him to death. Yet he also knew that it was not _his_ way to choose.

The light steps came closer, and a moment later the heavy door opened soundlessly and in came Gildor Inglorion, another promising young member of the High King's court. Though slightly younger than Elrond himself, Gildor was actually the same generation as Eärendil, and was as different from Elrond as it was possible for two male members of the same fair race. This was true for both their looks and their tempers.

While Elrond was marble-pale, even more so than the Noldor generally were, Gildor's skin had the slight golden hue of the Vanyar, inherited from his mother. Elrond had raven-black hair, fine and weightless like cobwebs, that moved on its own by the slightest breeze – another trait inherited from Melian and Lúthien. Gildor's hair was silky, too, but heavy like precious metal and glowed like molten gold.

Elrond had the clear grey eyes of Turgon, his great-grandfather. Gildor's eyes were wide and greyish-blue like the sea-foam, somewhere between Noldorin grey and Vanyarin blue. Despite his mortal ancestors, Elrond was tall, slender and elegant in his stature; Gildor was equally tall, but, surprisingly, the one with a stronger, brawnier built that came from his Vanyarin ancestors. The only trait they shared were the high Finwëan cheekbones that gave both their faces a proud and kingly expression.

Their natures were even more different. For what could be more opposite Elrond's quiet, scholarly nature than the youthful brashness of the youngest Prince from Finrod's House? Though both Inglor and his wife, the Lady Aratari, were calm, measured and soft-spoken Elves, their children certainly took back to earlier generations. Especially Gildor had something in him that Glorfindel preferably called "the typical arrogance of the Finwëans," hinting that the inheritance of the first High King was still strong, even in the fifth generation.

Needless to say that it had been no love lost between Glorfindel and the late King, though the twice-born Elf never told the story to any one.

Elrond shook his head, smiled inwardly and rose from his seat.

"What is it, Gildor?" he asked. "Am I being missed already?"

"Nay, not yet," the blond Prince grinned, "but you will be, soon. The King has asked for you already." He gave Elrond a queer look and added. "Your hair is a mess. Again. Scratched your head with the blunt end of that pen, have you?"

"Obviously," Elrond felt around his head and realized that a few of his formerly tight braids had indeed come loose. "It matters not. I have to go back to my room and put on something more appropriate, or the King will have my head. This hair will be my downfall one day."

"Want some help?" Gildor asked casually, eager for a chance to play with Elrond's wondrous hair – like just about anybody. Elrond rolled his eyes; for him, his much-adored hair was naught but a nuisance.

On the other hand, it was easier to let someone else work his fingers wound with it. Even Elves could not get a good grasp on their own heads.

"If you want…" he said with a shrug. "Come with me, then."

They went over to the living area of the palace, where they both had their rooms. Elrond pulled the simple working tunic over his head and laid it over the back of a chair, then walked to his wardrobe to choose something to wear. Gil-galad wanted the members of his court to be clad properly, so he had seen to it that Elrond had something to choose from. He _was the young Peredhel's next of kin, after all._

"Nay," Gildor shook his head when Elrond selected a gold-embroidered robe in deep, burgundy red, "that would make you look even paler than you already are. 'Tis not your colour."

He wore dark blue and silver, which made his golden hair shine even brighter. If aught, he certainly had a good taste in clothes.

"It matters not," Elrond shrugged. "I look pale what ever I wear. And I _like_ red."

Now it was Gildor's turn to roll his eyes, but he knew Elrond well enough to cease arguing. Once the Half-Elf had made up his mind, there was no way to change it.

"Sit down then," he said instead, "and let me bring this bird's nest in some sort of order."

Elrond laughed quietly; the friendly banter with the hot-headed blonde Prince lifted his spirits a little, as always. They were not truly friends, but with Gildor around, one could not brood too long. He sat down obediently, and Gildor, producing a finely carved bone comb from his belt pouch, began to unbraid and comb his hair. The smooth, even moves were strangely soothing, nearly lulling him into a nap.

"Your neck is too tense." Gildor pushed the comb in his hand and slid his strong fingers into the incredibly silky, black hair. "If we cannot loosen these knots, your head will ache for the whole festival."

He was an excellent sword-fighter and archer, and practiced hard to keep himself on a hard edge. Therefore, his fingertips were calloused, and as he began to gently massage Elrond's scalp and neck muscles, that soft hair crackled under his fingers, sending tiny jolts through Elrond's skin. The occasional brush over the sensitive tip of an ear helped not, either. Elrond suppressed a groan and leaned back into Gildor's skilled hands.

"Have you ever thought of becoming a healer?" he asked with closed eyes, focusing on the wonderful sensations. Gildor laughed. It sounded like a purr of a big cat.

"Nay; too bothersome. I prefer to be pampered, not to pamper. _And_ if I were a healer, I would have to tend to every one in need. I am… picky in whom I lay hand on."

Elrond opened a suspicious eye. "Does it mean that you like to lay your hand on _me_?"

"You should only ask the questions you truly want to get answered," replied Gildor with a devious grin and began to rebraid his hair. To Elrond's envious surprise, it took him mere minutes to get the unruly mass under control. "Now, get dressed. The Festival begins in less than an hour."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Sea Festival was marvellous as always, but this time it could not capture Elrond's heart, nor his mind. He liked the Sea as much as any other Elf (aside of the Falathrim, of course, who were simply _part of the Sea), but the great love for the waves and for ships he had not inherited from his father. It always had been Elros who dreamed of great journeys and strange lands beyond the waves, where he could build his own kingdom._

He got his wish. Over 400 years had he ruled Númenórë – a great King of Men, a ruler of peace and order. And now he was gone, bringing the shared memories of their childhood to his grave. With Maglor gone, too (if in a different fashion), there was no one else whom Elrond could truly _belong_.

Sure, Fíriel still remembered the little sons of Elwing from Sirion, but she very nearly died back there when the maddened sons of Fëanor destroyed the settlement and slew most of its inhabitants, and never saw the elflings grow up, become strong, learn things, adapt and change. That was something the brothers shared with each other only, and now with Maglor gone and Elros dead, no one else would remember.

He sighed and shook his head, wondering idly if his foster father had heard of Elros' passing. Ever since the message came, he had thought of Maglor often… where he might be, wandering restlessly in everlasting anguish over what he had done, what he might be doing now… No one had seen Maglor since the end of the War of Wrath when he tried – with the help of Maedhros – to wrestle the Silmarils from Eönwë.

_Maglor would love a Festival like this, he thought absently, snuggling closer to Gildor who had a loosely-wrapped arm around his waist; there was so much comfort in the closeness of the high-spirited young Prince. _A feast where Maiar would come to the shore to join our merriment and sea-spirits would dance for us upon the waves. It would remind him of his childhood, spent among the Lords and Ladies of the West. What wondrous songs he would sing for us, was he here, I wonder?__

"You wonder too much," replied Gildor, and Elrond realized with a half-smile that he had spoken aloud. "You _think entirely too much for your own good. 'Tis a feast – try to enjoy yourself!"_

"My brother has just died, Gildor," Elrond reminded him, mildly annoyed. The blonde Prince shrugged.

"So what? You had lost him already, four hundred years ago."

"Nay… not truly," Elrond protested. Gildor gave him the Finwëan eyebrow.

"You think so? Tell me: how often have you visited him on that island of his? Or how often has he come back to see you?"

Elrond answered not. 'Twas true, the contacts between him and his brother had been scarce at best, since Elros set sail for Númenórë. A few messages… the announcement of the birth of children… half a dozen visits from his side (Elros never came back to Middle-earth)…and then the news of the King's death. Gildor, though rather blunt, was right. He had lost his brother a long time ago.

Still, it hurt badly.

"See?" said Gildor, and his eyes softened a little. "No need for driving yourself into endless grief. 'Tis a very old loss you suffer."

"And a very old pain," Elrond replied softly. Gildor nodded.

"I cannot attempt to understand you fully," he said after a while. "My life has been sheltered, so far. But I can offer you comfort, if you are willing to accept."

Elrond blinked in surprise. Despite all the flirtatious jokes Gildor spread so easily around, the offer came unexpected.

"I doubt that your parents would approve," he answered. "They live by different rules than the Sindar."

"Yet they dwell on Middle-earth now," said Gildor, "and respect the customs of those they live among. They allowed me to partake in the Choosing Ceremony, after all!"

"But I never saw you take on any offers during earlier feasts," Elrond said. Gildor gave him a wry grin.

"Apparently, you never looked closely enough. Fíriel kept you on too short a leash, it seems. Which reminds me – how come you are not with her tonight?"

Elrond shrugged. "We agreed to end our… involvement. 'Twas never earnest among us… based mostly on shared memories. Ending it makes me – or her – no more lonely than we were before."

"You are not old enough to be so wisely boring." Gildor tightened his one-armed embrace around Elrond's waist. "Come, let us escape the crowd. I shall make you forget your concerns, at least for tonight."

"We cannot go now!," protested Elrond, suspiciously near to panic. "The opening ceremony has barely begun – we would be missed!"

"You truly believe anyone would notice?" With his free arm outstretched, Gildor pointed towards the shore where Ossë and his whole court was emerging majestically from the waves; all eyes were focused on the enchanting sight. "They have seen us attend the feast. Now that 'tis going on, they could not care less whether or not we still are here." He leaned closer and nibbled a little on the sensitive tip of one ear, knowing well that it would turn Elrond into putty in mere moments. "Come, I know just the right place…"

"You are one evil, manipulative Elf!" Elrond groaned; the ear thing never failed to undo him. Gildor grinned.

"I know. And you are a brooding, miserable Half-Elf in serious need of some merriment and pampering. I shall see to it that you get what you need. Now, be quiet and come with me!"

Elrond hesitated for a moment, comparing the shining golden light that was Gildor to the tall, dark, forbiddingly beautiful image of the High King that had haunted his dreams for quite some time by now – and gave in. Once again, Gildor was right. He had denied himself far too long.

"I fear I shall regret it," he said with a deep sigh, "but you can be very… persuasive, when you put your mind to it."

"Why should you regret aught?" laughed Gildor and began to pull him by the hand towards the palace. "Nay, you shall enjoy yourself – and no one would find us. I promise."

Elrond smiled ruefully, for indeed, that was his only remaining concern: to be found in the middle of a merry tryst, while he should be attending to the official festivities. Despite them being casual friends only, Gildor had already learnt all too well the pathways of his thoughts.

"You fret too much," Gildor added lightly. "You spend too much time with Gil-galad. One day you will become just like him – when you find a way to let your nose grow three more inches."

Elrond could not help but laugh, for truly, the only fault in the unblemished fairness of the High King, if one could find one, was the slightly long nose(4). _Not that it would make him look less venerable_, he thought. Gildor interpreted his laughter as an agreement and tugged him along to the backyard of the palace.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Your hair is a mess again," Gildor said sleepily, letting the bone comb slide through Elrond's black tresses.

"It held longer than usual… considering what we have been doing for the last hours," Elrond replied, closing his eyes in deep satisfaction. "Is that comb of yours enchanted?"

"Not that I would know it… and I should. It was I who made it, after all."

Elrond opened his eyes and turned to him in surprise. "You made the comb?"

"Certainly." Gildor shrugged and turned the item in question a few times in his hands. "I have not the talent of my father or grandfather to carve stone… but I like to work with bone or horn. You like it?"

"'Tis pretty," Elrond nodded, taking a closer look at the tiny stars, adorning the comb. Gildor shrugged again and pushed the it into his hand.

"It is yours then. Nay," he raised a hand to stop Elrond from protesting, "'tis nothing. I can always make a new one for myself. And stars go more with you than with me. Humour me in this one."

"Then I gratefully accept." Elrond gave him the comb back. "Would you mind re-braiding my hair once more? We should return to the festival, or else someone will be sent to look for us."

"Alas, that might happen," Gildor agreed, getting to work eagerly. "And we would not want them to find out about us, would we?"

"Nay," Elrond answered. "'Tis between you and me. It is we who should decide where to go with it."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) "Praise of Eru" (Quenya) – the midsummer feast in Númenor. (See: UT: A description of Númenor). Of course, the Sea Festival is an entirely different matter. Just the time of the year is the same.

(2) Still going with the Sil here. Forgive me, Finch.

(3) I can't simply presume that everyone knows my other writings, so for the record: in my imagination both Glorfindel and Círdan had awakened at Cuiviénen – Glorfindel, being a Vanya, by default a little earlier than Círdan, a Telerin Elf.

(4) For better visualization: in my stories Gil-galad is "played" by actor Julian McMahon. (See: Profiler, Charmed, etc.)


	2. Chapter 2: Of Sea-food and Old Friends

TWISTED PATHS OF FATE 

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:**

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

**Author's notes:**

I decided to let Voronwë remain a little longer in Middle-earth and send him to the West with Gildor's parents in a later chapter.

As for Galdor: according to The Book of Lost Tales Part 2, there was a Galdor in Gondolin, and in a rather high position. A name list for Gondolin states: 

''Galdor was that valiant Gnome (an earlier name for the Noldor that has been abandoned later) who led the men of the Tree in many a charfe and yet won out of Gondolin and even the onslaught of Melko (earlier name for Melkor/Morgoth) upon the dwellers at Sirion's mouth and went back to the ruins [of Gondolin] with Eärendel (later: Eärendil). He dwelleth yet in Tol Eressëa, and still do some of his folk name themselved Nos Galdon, for Galdon is a tree and thereto Galdor's name akin.'' 

Well, I changed the background of poor Galdor quite a lot. First, I made him a Telerin Elf, presuming that many of the other Elven kindred might have sought protection in Gondolin. Second, I let him come back with the Host of the Valar and stay in the Grey Havens for another Age or two – simply because I wanted him and Círdan's messenger at Elrond's Council to be the same person.

According the canon, of course they are not! But making him one of the survivors of Gondolin, I wanted Glorfindel to have at least one person somewhat closer to his own age. If you read my Glorfindel-story (A Tale of Never-Ending Love), you'll see, of course, that Glorfindel is even a lot older than that. 

There also had been another Legolas Greenleaf in Gondolin (at least according to the Book of Lost Tales Part 2), who helped Idril, Turgon's daughter to escape after the fall of the city. The List of Names in Gondolin states: 

''Legolas or Greenleaf'' was a man of the Tree [also one of Galdor's followers], who led the exiles over Tumladin in the dark, being night-sighted, and he liveth still in Tol Eressëa, named by the Elves there Laiqalassë...'' 

(This last bit has been added for Cirdan's sake who wanted this older Legolas in the story so much! You basically gave me the feasting hall of your namesake, after all.g)

My heartfelt thanks to Cirdan for beta-reading.

CHAPTER 2: OF SEAFOOD AND OLD FRIENDS 

The singing and dancing and merriment lasted all night; and so did the eating and drinking. The feasting hall of the Sea Palace, through the transparent floor of which the never-resting movements of the Sea could be seen, was full of people. Unlike other Elf-Lords, Círdan preferred not being seated around a large table with his guests. Several long, narrow tables framed the walls instead, loaded with different sorts of excellent seafood, and the guests walked to and fro, to a bit here and a piece there, tried many different dishes ere they settled for what tasted to them best, talking and jesting and watching the fish and other creatures of the Sea under their feet.

Glorfindel was in his best mood in a long time. Ever since he returned to Middle-earth, the Sea called to him with murmured promises that one day he might set sail for the West again. At times he wondered if it were not better to live somewhere deeper on the festland, where the lure of the Sea was not so strong. But it was not his decision. If Elrond wanted to live in Gil-galad's court, he, too, would stay.

He wondered idly where his young friend might be – unlike others, he noticed the sudden disappearance of the Peredhel and hoped that the High King would take no offense. Gil-galad could be nasty if things went against his wishes, and he wanted his court to partake in the Festival. The fact that Gildor was nowhere to be seen, either, gave the ancient Elf a hint for the activities Elrond might be involved in. Glorfindel smiled silently. Mayhap Gildor would be able to shake Elrond out of his pensive mood.

He strolled with his plate to the nearest table and helped himself to another generous amount of that excellent seaweed salad (the one with the tiny fried crabs and squid rings in it, sprinkled with that delicious spicy sauce), and closed his eyes in bliss before taking the first bit. The cuisine of the Sea-Elves was the best he tried in both his lives, so far.

"I cannot understand what Turgon had against seafood," he murmured, rolling an especially juicy piece of crab flesh around on his tongue.

"I believe he rather had something against the Sea," an eerily familiar voice answered from behind his back. "Small wonder, if you consider how much he had lost to it."

Glorfindel rather unceremoniously swallowed his bite of choice and whirled around, facing a tall, silver-haired Elf whom he had not seen since the fall of Gondolin.

"Galdor?" he asked in utter disbelief. "Galdor from the Folk of the Tree? How in Mandos have you come here?"

"'Tis I who should ask that question," the silver-haired one laughed. "I was not the one who had been killed by the Balrog, buried and grieved for 'til the end of the First Age. There are still songs sung about your last battle, my friend. You have become a legend."

"Oh, speak not of such things, I beg you," Glorfindel answered with a wry smile; the whole fuss around his person never failed to make him uncomfortable; besides, slaying the Balrog was _not his last battle, having fought through the War of Wrath on Eönwë's side. "Believe me, I am still the same one I was in our days of Gondolin's glory."_

"Nay, I think not," the Telerin Elf shook his silver head after giving his friend of old a good, close look. "Not that it would surprise me, mind you. For though 'tis said that we can be released from Mandos' Halls at the proper time, you are the only one who has returned, so far."

"That might be so," Glorfindel agreed quietly, "and mayhap I truly _have changed. Death is a powerful experience." He shivered for a moment, then shook off the memories with practiced ease. "But you, my friend – do tell me how come that I still meet you here? I was told that you sailed to Tol Eressëa, accompanying Idril and Tuor with Legolas and the rest of your people."_

"I did," Galdor snatched a particularly appealing piece of crab flesh from Glorfindel's plate, which earned him a slap on the fingers, but he popped it into his mouth nevertheless, "yet I became restless, very soon. The fate of my home of old let me not sit around idly, while the war still was going on. So I offered my help on the ships that brought the Host of the Valar back to Middle-earth, and remained with Cirdan after Beleriand had been drowned. We are kinsmen, after all, though I am two generations removed from him(1)."

"Five hundred years, and I saw you not once," Glorfindel shook his head in disbelief, quickly removing his plate from Galdor's reach. "Get your own food, long-fingered Sea-Elf, there is enough left! I prefer to eat my own meals by myself!"

"We rarely were on the same place," Galdor replied, filling his own plate generously and in no hurry at all. "I was on the ships during the whole War, not on the battlefields; then I helped ferrying the Edain to their new home. Even stayed with them for a while… until King Tar-Minyatur's passing." His sea-grey eyes clouded with sorrow. "He was a great King of his own people, Glorfindel, the little son of Eärendil. He ruled wisely. Turgon would have been proud of him."

"I doubt it not," Glorfindel sighed, "but I hardly knew him. What a shame that the children of Idril Celebrindal has become so estranged that they have barely had any contact since Elros left for Númenórë!"

"They are… _were both annoyingly stubborn," Galdor nodded. "A trait they inherited from our late King, no doubt. Though I heard that Elwë was little better in this manner…"_

"So I was told by the survivors of Doriath," Glorfindel agreed with a sad smile. "Pride and arrogance have always been the downfall of our great Houses – and mine was no exception, even though I was their leader by choice only, not by blood(2). But let us the dead rest in peace, my friend. We cannot change what has been done wrongly, no matter how much we would want to. Our eyes must look into the future now."

"Truer words have never been spoken," Galdor laughed quietly. "I must admit, I rather enjoy my second stay in Middle-earth. I might even build my own home in Mithlond, now that the great labours have been finished. So, do tell me, how is Eärendil's eldest faring? Despite their estrangement, the death of his brother surely hit him hard."

"He is very good at hiding his feelings," Glorfindel shrugged. "It has to be something he learnt while living with Maglor, I deem. As for tonight, I cannot be sure, of course, but I do believe he has found some comfort – in the company of a friend. Mayhap 'tis the best. Better than all the hollow words of wisdom I could offer."

"That is what festivals are for," Galdor agreed with a thoughtful smile. "Even if it seems that you and I have grown too old for it already. Or else we would not stand here, talking about old times, would we?"

"'Tis not about age," said Glorfindel. "Compared to me, you are but a child, even though you belong to the Elder of our kin in Middle-earth now. But I am bound, my friend, and I intend to remain faithful."

"I think not that Idril would still hold you to your oath, sworn in another time and in another life." Galdor shook his head. "You have been re-made, different now; every one can see it. I do understand that you keep your word to protect her offspring, but that means not that you have to be lonely."

"I am not," Glorfindel smiled, "and you are right in one thing: my one-sided bond to Turgon's daughter has been severed when I was re-made. 'Tis a different bond that has kept me ever since the end of the War… one of the spirits, rather than one of the heart."

"I have heart of it… from the Lady Uinen," Galdor admitted, "but I always thought it to be something akin Círdan's bond to her and to the Lord Ossë."

"And just who knows what the true nature of _that bond might be?" Glorfindel asked. "I certainly do not; nor is it my wish to dig too deeply. The ties that bond __me go further, though, it seems. Even though my oath demands from me to remain here as long as one of Idril's descendants remains."_

"Then you have a long way to go ere you can be reunited with your chosen one," said Galdor after a lengthy silence. Glorfindel nodded.

"That I have. But I am old enough to be patient. Yet what about you? Why are you alone in a night like this? 'Tis not the way of the Teleri to spend their greatest festival in solitude."

"Nor is it mine," Galdor smiled, "and I have not come alone. We just kept out the crowd… until I saw you here. Voronwë dislikes being crowded, you know that."

Glorfindel stopped eating. In fact, he very nearly stopped breathing at all. To say that he was stunned would have been an understatement.

"_Voronwë?," he repeated. "You mean Voronwë, son of Aranwë? Our companion of old from Gondolin? Did he not sail away with Idril and Tuor?(3)"_

"He was supposed to," said Galdor with unmistakable sadness in his voice, "yet he shied back in the last moment. As much as he loves the Sea, he also is horrified to board a ship again… after what has happened to him in the last time. Nay, he dwelt with Círdan on Balar, for he was unable to leave the Sea either; then, after the drowning of the island he moved to Harlond. I found out about him less than ten years ago."

"It must be very hard on him." Glorfindel slowly digested the fact that another lost friend just appeared out of thin air. "Of all of us, he longed to go to the West the most."

"He very nearly lost his mind in the loneliness of his house," Galdor nodded. "He had not left it for years when I found him. It took me about a year to lure him out of it. Another one to get him on my ship while it was laying at the quay. And this is the first time I could make him sail up the Gulf with me and join the Festival."

"'Tis sad," said Glorfindel; "for sooner or later, he would have to master his fears, or else the sea-longing would kill him. He had been caught by it even before Turgon sent him out on that disastrous journey."

"He is fading already," Galdor added, full of sorrow, "and naught but the Blessed Realm could save him. He knows it, too. But he still fears the Sea too much."

He paused, then he gave Glorfindel a pleading look.

"Would you not come and speak to him? Meeting an old friend might lift his spirits a little. And in his current state of mind he desperately needs it."

"Sure," Glorfindel nodded. "Seeing him would lift _my spirits as well, I believe. See that we find a bottle of good wine somewhere and let us go."_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) The exact nature of Cirdan's kinship with half of the Telerin Elves is as much a mystery for me as for most people. I have my very own theory about the Awakening at Cuiviénen, assuming that the ones the Elves awoke together were not their pre-determined spouses but their siblings (sort of), so let's assume that Galdor descended from a sibling of Círdan's.

(2) Which is another idea made up by me entirely. Since _my Glorfindel was one of the very Firstborn, and he never married, I needed another way how he could have his own House. I simply made some Elves of mixed Vanyarin/Noldorin descent to choose him to be their Lord._

(3) Yes, I know that he most likely did. I just postponed his journey a little. I'll send him "home" ere this story is finished. I promise.


	3. Chapter 3: First Sight

TWISTED PATHS OF FATE 

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:**

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

**Author's notes:**

Firstly, let me answer a few questions – if I can.

Nemis: No, I won't force Julian McMahon upon you. Which doesn't mean that _he's the one who "plays" __my Gil-galad. Long nose or not, I'm with Elrond in this one._

Maeve: I did some factchecking about Voronwë. In advance, actually. It seems that Tolkien himself revised his own theory about Eärendil's mariner career several times. First, it was a lot of journeys. Then, it was only one big journey. At one time, Voronwë was a simple mariner, at another one of the captains of the seven ships Turgon sent to seek out Valinor. As Finch said, the last word seems to be that he _might have left with Idril and Tuor. Nothing certain._

Also, I have no idea when and who Elrond first met Celeborn and Galadriel. At this time, he still is rather young for an Elf, so I thought it would be as good an opportunity as ever, with them dwelling at Lake Evendim. There's no birth date given in the Appendices for Celebrían – she might have been younger than I show her, but that's not certain, either.

As for Celeborn, I took some liberties concerning his ancestry. But since Tolkien himself had at least three different theories about him, I felt I could be a little more – inspired in this.

**Dedication: This one is for Nemis, who wanted Gil-galad really badly. Hey, it even has Celebrían – sort of.g**

**CHAPTER 3: FIRST SIGHT**

Gil-galad saw Glorfindel disappear somewhere in the garden and groaned inwardly. He hated to face his guests – well, it would have been more correct to say "Círdan's guests," but as High King and as the foster son of the Shipwright he had to take over certain duties – without the supporting presence of the ancient Elf. Even though he knew perfectly well that Glorfindel's support belonged to Elrond, first and foremost – a strong bond, almost as strong as between father and son, had been forged between the two of them while they traveled with Eönwë all over the western lands after the War of Wrath. In spite of his mixed heritage, Elrond _was the youngest member of Fingolfin's House, and that was the House Glorfindel had sworn his oath of service, first based on his friendship to Turgon, then out of love to Idril._

Gil-galad sighed. Círdan was still out in the Gulf, swimming and laughing and playing with the sea-spirits and many of the more adventurous Falathrim, entertaining the Lady Uinen and her moody spouse with their graceful water-play, and there was but a small chance of him returning any time, soon. So it was the High King's duty to officially greet the highest-ranking guests who had arrived just a little late to witness the opening ceremony and were now waiting at the entrance of the Feasting Hall to be welcomed.

He eyed a little warily Celeborn of Doriath, the exact grade of whose kinship with Círdan he never could truly figure out. The tall, silver-haired warrior who also was counted among the Wise of the Firstborn, wore a long, silvery-green robe made of that light and soft cloth the making of which was a secret of the Green-Elves of Hithlum and kept by their kin in Ossiriand even after the War. Upon his brow was a narrow silver circlet with a white stone in the middle.

Celeborn was said to be a close kin of Elwë Singollo, too, born and raised in the enchanted woods of Doriath and taught by Melian herself. He was known as the best archer of his people since the tragic passing of Beleg Cúthalion, but his hands were equally skilled with the strings of the harp. He had not the rare gift of a true minstrel, but he played the harp well, and knew all the old lays of the Doriathrim, many of which were made by the Wood-Elves in their own tongue.

The more surprising it was for every one who knew him the choice he made when he married Artanis, Finarfin's daughter, whom he called Galadriel. Gil-galad was not even born at that time, but the choice of the Tree Lord, as Celeborn was commonly called, had been discussed in astonishment and mild dismay among the Sindar in the Havens – when Círdan was not nearby to hear it, that is.

No one truly knew what part Artanis, the Warrior Princess had in the Kinslaying of Alqualondë, and considering the part that his own father had in it, Gil-galad had no right to ask or condemn her. That was a horrible event of the past, and he could be glad that Círdan kept his friendship with the Noldor nevertheless – and that the Lord Ossë tolerated _him on his shores during all these years._

So nay, 'twas not what Artanis might or might not have done at Alqualondë what made him uneasy in her presence. Considering the fact that Celeborn had married her, her part in the bloodshed must have been a small one – mayhap the guilt of doing naught _against it, more than joining it, or Celeborn would never touch her, no matter how much he might have been in love. The Tree Lord was aught but soft and easily forgiving._

Nay, it was that calculating coldness in her eyes that never failed to make the young King shiver. Those were the eyes of someone who loved power and was willing to do about everything to gain it. Though the Green-Elves of Ossiriand – at least those tribes that dwelt around Lave Evendim – chose Celeborn to be their Lord, Artanis carried herself as if _she had the power in their small realm._

_The typical arrogance of the Finwëans, echoed Glorfindel's remark in the young King's head while he steeled himself to face the now-eldest member of that once so great House. To his great relief, Inglor and his wife, the Lady Lintari(1), chose this very moment to appear on his side. The son of Finrod – an almost uncanny copy of his father according to Círdan – gave him a friendly pat on the back, while the golden-shimmering Vanyarin lady took his arm like he were family._

"Show no fear," Inglor commented in a low voice. "Our dear aunt loves it to send cold shivers down other people's spine, but that is about all she can do."

"That, and invading other people's thoughts," Lintari added, clearly not liking it. "More so now that she is with child; that makes her the more sensitive. Avoid seeing directly in her eyes if you can – that makes her more difficult to read your mind."

"But I have naught to hide," Gil-galad protested uncertainly, fighting a nasty little inner voice that told him otherwise.

"I say not that you have," answered Lintari, "but you cannot know what weakness of yours she would find out to use it later against you. She would not hesitate to do so, in _that I have no doubts."_

"'Tis said that she and my father used to be very close," Inglor added thoughtfully. "That is why I sought her out at the first possible time. I did not even know my father and so was eager to learn more of him than my mother could tell. But it seems Mother knew him not as well as I thought – in fact, she knew him not at all, if my father truly was that close to his sister as people say. Either Artanis must have changed a lot since she came back to Middle-earth, or my father was not the person Mother thought him to be."

Gil-galad knew, of course, that the reunion between Finrod's only son and his sister went not well, but he knew not the details and chose not to ask. _Better let sleeping dragons lie, he warned himself wisely. He was grateful, however, that Inglor was on his side when he had to face the formidable Lady of Evendim._

Unlike her husband, Artanis was clad in white, the heavy folds of her gown unable to conceal her pregnant state any more. She was not far from giving birth by now, and it surprised Gil-galad that she had taken upon her the journey at all, even though it was not a very long one. Still, she looked weary, leaning heavily on Celeborn's arm, her much-adored hair sparkling in the light of the silver lanterns like _ithildin._

The High King honoured their guests with a polite bow, hand upon heart, saying: "Welcome to the Grey Havens, Lord of the Trees… Lady Artanis. It has been too long since you lastly honoured one of our feasts with your presence."

"Very true," Celeborn agreed, his voice deep and pleasant like the music of the wind among the tree-branches, "and truth to be told, we cannot even blame the hardships of ruling for it. Our little realm is a quiet place, and life is slow and peaceful there."

"And the trees are wonderful company, no doubt," Lintari added with a smile. Celeborn inclined his head in a somehow rueful agreement.

"Yea, they are. Though as much as our people enjoy the woods, sometimes I fear that my Lady would find our life rather… plain. She was not born to dwell under trees, after all."

"My Lord delights in speaking of me as if I were not present," Artanis said with a slight edge in her voice, "yet I can assure you that I chose to dwell at Lake Evendim of my own free will."

"I doubt very much that any one, even the Lord of the Trees, could make you do aught you would rather not doing, Lady Artanis," Inglor replied mildly.

"Nay, they certainly cannot," Artanis agreed, her voice gaining even more of an edge, though it seemed not to frighten Inglor a bit.

Gil-galad shifted positions uncomfortably. The last thing he wanted was a less-than-friendly family banter breaking out in the middle of the Sea Festival. Círdan would heavily disapprove of having the greatest feast of the Falathrim spoiled, and despite all their love for each other, Gil-galad always found it better not to raise Círdan's disapproval. The Shipwright was slow to anger, but _when he got angry, it was like a sea storm – it wiped out everything in its way._

Fortunately, Celeborn came to his rescue with practiced smoothness. "'Tis not my wish to force my Lady to do aught against her will," he said with a slight smile. "But do tell me, my Lord: have we come at the right time this year? Can we finally hope to meet the last child of Lúthien? It has been my wish for a long time to know the great-grandsons of my brother, and now that Elros is lost for us forever, the more do I long to meet Elrond."

"Most certainly, you can meet him this time," Gil-galad nodded in relief that they finally found a topic that might _not escalate into a fight. "He must be here somewhere – I shall send someone to find him."_

"No need for that, my Lord; I am here," and Elrond, more gliding upon the transparent floor than walking, stepped up to the High King, clad in his most rich, burgundy red raiment, his raven-black hair braided in the same fashion as Gil-galad's own; which was the reason that particular fashion was called the King's Braid. "'Tis my pleasure to meet you, Lord Celeborn. I regret having been absent during your rare visits in the Havens."

"They were far in-between, 'tis true," Celeborn nodded, clasping forearms with the young Peredhel, while Artanis reached out her hand for a kiss absently. "I must say, I am surprised," the Lord of the Trees added, giving Elrond a thorough look. "I have heard rumors before, of course, but your likeness to Lúthien is stunning, indeed. Think you not so, my Lady?"

Artanis focused her cold grey eyes on that pale face, fair beyond even Elven measure and yet carrying a slight mortal hardness in its fine features. Elrond could feel her probing mind, cool and mildly disapproving of his mixed heritage, at least the mortal part of it, and clamped down his mental shields with brutal force. Never had he felt this naked and vulnerable before, but he knew he could shut her out. The blood of Melian in his veins protected him against her unwelcomed intrusion, just as the Girdle had once protected Doriath from any peril.

"I would thank you, Lady Artanis, if you could leave me the privacy of my thoughts," he said icily. Artanis' eyes darkened from dark grey to almost black.

"Are you afraid that I might find out who has bound those lover's knots into your hair?," she asked sweetly.

Gil-galad's eyes turned to Elrond at once, who gave him a clueless look and felt around his braids in surprise – then blushed furiously. "Ai!," he looked back sheepishly at Gil-galad and blushed even deeper. "I asked a friend to re-braid my hair; apparently, he thought it to be a good jest."

"And I was right, was I," Gildor laughed, appearing seemingly from nowhere. "You blush so prettily; it is more visible than by any one else I know. It must be a Half-Elven thing(2)."

"Nildorë," his mother said sternly, "your pranks are dangerously near the edge of good taste." Gildor rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Stop calling me by that name, Mother, I beg you!" 

"Why; it _is your name, after all(3)," Lintari pointed out mercilessly. _

"It sounds horrible," Gildor countered, "and 'tis embarrassing to be called like that."

"Far less so than what you have done to your friend," his mother said. "Humor me and try to grow up a little, my son. You are no longer a little elfling of twelve summers. Go now and find Alcarnis(4), would you? She ought to greet our guests, too."

Gildor, glad to have received naught but a mild scolding for his silly prank, hurriedly disappeared in the crowd, and Celeborn took Elrond's arm with the natural warmth of family. "Walk with me for a while, young one," he said. "I wish to talk with you some more. Surely you know a spot in this palace where we would be undisturbed?"

Elrond went with him obediently, grateful for having been freed from such an embarrassing situation, and Gil-galad, too, was called away to welcome other newly arrived guests. The Sea Festival was an event that lasted a full six days, so coming and going was a natural thing. Still, the host (or his foster son) had his duties.

"Go with the King, _melme," Lintari smiled at her husband. "Artanis and I shall have a little talk among women. __You would doubtlessly find it very boring, so you are excused."_

Inglor hurried after the High King in relief, and Lintari led Artanis out to one of the large balconies of the Feasting Hall where they could sit comfortably. 

"Would you like something to eat?," the Vanyarin lady asked. "Your mother being a Telerin Elf sea-food should be acceptable, but I can ask for something else if you wish."

"Nay, thank you," Artanis wriggled on the stuffed sofa, trying to find a position that would be vaguely comfortable. "Eating has become rather a burden fro me since I am with child. Was it so with you as well?"

"Not with my son, it was not", Lintari said, "but I was sick all the time with Alcarnis. Every child is different, it seems. When are you due to give birth?"

"I have two more moons to endure," Artanis sighed. "I feel as big as the biggest ship of Círdan. Valar, I _hate being with child."_

"'Tis not always pleasant," Lintari agreed, "but bringing forth a new life is worth the discomfort. I hope your daughter will feel the same way when her time comes."

"How can you know 'tis a girl?," Artanis asked in surprise. "I was told that only the mother…"

"In most cases 'tis true," Lintari nodded, "but I was not given my name without a reason. A few of our family have this gift for the Music of the Ainur in our hearts that make us able to hear the tone in the hearts of others. A female child, even unborn, has a different tone than a male one. Besides," she added with a smile, "I am also a practiced healer. We know how to read the outer signs in order to define the gender of an unborn."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Farther away, in an enclosed part of Círdan's garden, Elrond and the Lord Celeborn were discussing the art of healing as well. 

"So you chose to become a healer," the Lord of the Trees said thoughtfully. "After the horrors you had to witness, 'tis not surprising at all. But who was your tutor in the art of healing? Your foster father surely not – he was not one of those who healed… on the contrary."

"Fíriel has been my first teacher," Elrond answered, ignoring the hit aimed at Maglor with an ease born of long practice. "She used to be a healer ere I was even born. Then the Lady Lintari became my tutor. She says I have an in-born gift for healing, one that cannot be achieved by learning and practice alone. So, it would be a waste not to put it to the best possible use."

"You have been thoroughly taught in ancient lore as well, I deem," Celeborn said. "What ever I might think of the sons of Fëanor personally, Maglor was a great minstrel, second to Daeron only. Mayhap 'tis their fate to go mad after a while. But he is said to have been good with languages as well."

"He spoke many," Elrond nodded, "and he taught us all of them. He also insisted that we learned how to wield any weapons that he could lay hand upon, therefore I am a trained warrior as well. But it never gave me any pleasure. A healer and a lore master – that is what I wish to become. My brother is – was – the true warrior."

"Your brother had forgotten who he truly was," Celeborn answered quietly. "I was told by survivors that he thought himself as a part of Fëanor's House – that poor, mislead child(5)! Small wonder that he chose mortality after his family of choice had perished. Being a King of Men gave him a place to belong, a true purpose – all things that he had painfully lacked before."

"No more than I do," Elrond sighed. "For what am I truly, my lord? I am no Man, yet I am not truly an Elf, either. I have no true place on Earth."

"You are unique and precious, to all of us," Celeborn replied solemnly. "You alone unite all the Three Kindred of Elves in your blood and bind them to both the Maiar and mortal Men. At this very moment you are the last of your kind – but it must not remain so. Sooner or later, you will have to pass over the heritage of Melian to the next generation. 'Tis your responsibility that her gifts to Middle-earth remain here."

"I think not that I am the right one to found a family," Elrond shook his head doubtfully. Celeborn smiled.

"You are certainly not – not _now, at least. But your time shall come. And should you ever wish to leave the court, you always will be welcome in my home. You are family, never forget that."_

"I seriously doubt that the Lady Artanis would be delighted to have me nearby all the time," said Elrond. Celeborn shrugged.

"My Lady is a generous person – even if she finds it hard to warm up to new people. I fear she found not what she had come back to Middle-earth for: great kingdoms to rule as her own. This makes her a little bitter, 'tis true. But she chose _me, and she knew perfectly well that that also meant choosing my family, too. A family you are part of by birthright."_

"Still, I think not that my presence would make her any happier," Elrond said. Celeborn looked at him sharply; then he burst out in a deep laughter.

"And I think not that dwelling under trees would make _you any happier than it makes __her," he said, highly amused, "even though you are the grandson of Nimloth. The two of you have more common than you might think."_

"Mayhap what Glorfindel calls 'the typical haughtiness of the Finweans'?" Elrond asked with a slight smile.

"I cannot say," replied Celeborn thoughtfully, "as I never met the High King of the Noldor – the first one, I mean. But one thing seems sure: his blood runs deep in all of you, indeed."

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Gildor's mother was called Aratari earlier. I re-christened her because I was not entirely happy with the sound of that name. Lintari means "musical queen" in Quenya. Both names were given to my by the most generous Artanis – our fellow writer, not the character, of course.

(2) Forgive me, Nemis! I simply could not resist. Anyone who doesn't understand the hint, should go and read "The High Princes of Tírion" by Nemis.

(3) True; actually, it is the Quenya form of Lindor. Thanks, Finch!

(4) Quenya name of Gildor's sister, Aglareth. Means Glory-woman. Courtesy of Finch. What would I do without all my scholarly fellow Silmfic authors?

(5) Something I have borrowed from Deborah's wonderful story, As Little Might Be Thought. By the way, Fíriel comes from that story, too.


	4. Chapter 4: The Call of the Sea

TWISTED PATHS OF FATE 

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:**

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

**Rating: G**

**Author's notes:**

This one is for all us Voronwë-groupies out there. Hey, I am the cheerleader in that particular group! His story and family background is presented as it is in the "Unfinished Tales," except of the final fate of his parents. There aren't any canon facts (known to be) about that, but you're welcome to correct me.

Chapter 4: The Call of the Sea 

Glorfindel and Galdor, with plates full of excellent food in hand, strolled lazily through Círdan's extensive gardens that stretched gracefully along the Gulf, opposite the port itself. Unlike the orchards that lay further behind, protected by stone walls against the quirks of the weather, these stood wide open and descended in wide, flat steps to the Sea. There were evergreen trees and bushes, the latter enclosing small barrows, offering proper privacy to those who wanted to celebrate the Sea Festival with the gentle plays of love, and there were fountains whose basins were wrought in the likeness of curiously formed seashells, and whose falling water – due to their particular shape – formed a soft harmony with the never-ending murmurs of the Sea. A wonderful peace lay upon the gardens of the Shipwright, one that Glorfindel had not felt on this side of the Sea, not even in the enclosed safety of Gondolin.

Which thought reminded him of the reason of their stroll.

"You said he would be here," he said accusingly, looking around for their mutual friend without success. Galdor shrugged.

"Well, he _was here when I went to look for you."_

Glorfindel rolled his eyes. "Now _that is very helpful, indeed."_

Instead of an answer, Galdor turned from the Palace and began to descend a narrow, steep path between the tall evergreen bushes. It clearly led towards the Sea, so Glorfindel sighed in exasperation. "And where are you going _now?"_

"When he is not where I left him, there is only one place he can be," Galdor answered over his shoulder, carefully balancing his heaped plate during his descent; "on the shore."

"I thought you said that he feared the Sea," said Glorfindel pointedly; all that Elven grace notwithstanding, he hated to walk on steep paths with a plate full of food that had the tendency to fall off and stain his clothes in his hands. Not to mention the excellent but _very liquid sauce that never failed to find a way off any plates. It had a disturbingly bright colour, and he was clad in white… well, mostly, if one left the rich golden embroidery out of consideration._

"He does," Galdor replied, "and yet he cannot stay away from it for any length. Or else he would have moved deeper inland, I deem."

Glorfindel nodded his understanding, and they walked down the hidden little path in silence, the ancient Elf taking strategic methods to hinder his belligerent food to wander off his plate to his rather… colour-sensitive clothing.

Even though Mithlond lay at a gulf and not on the coast of the Great Sea, its shores were a marvel, nevertheless. Here, far from the port itself and its noisy life, there was an open terrace, the tall, glassless windows of which looked at the sandy shore. One could see the waves dancing merrily just a few feet from the slender pillars, for it was the time of high flood. And – leaned against one of the pillars – an Elf sat, wrapped in a grey cloak that was sodden with the sea-spray the waves threw at him. Silently he sat, gazing out over the long ridges of the waves. There lay a solemn air all over them, the far, merry sounds of the feast over toned by the roaring of the surf below.

Glorfindel stood and looked down at the silent grey figure, whose shoulders were slumped in defeat, even if he held his head raised in a proud but useless gesture. The heart of the ancient Elf ached, feeling the hopeless yearning rolling off in waves of his friend of old. Carefully, he placed his food on the small stone table that stood in a corner for exactly this reason, and he called aloud, not able to endure the grief-loaded silence any more.

"Voronwë! Thank the Valar that our paths have finally met! 'Tis good to see you again, my young friend!"

The Elf rose and turned, and for a moment there was a light in those sea-grey eyes of his as he gazed at the white and golden shimmering figure of Glorfindel in fear and wonder. A moment thus they stayed, and the Voronwë, finally believing that his eyes had, in fact, not misled him, stepped closer and opened his arms.

"Glorfindel! 'Tis truly you!"

"The same one as I have ever been… well, mostly." Glorfindel gave his friend a long, reassuring hug – as much for his own sake as for Voronwë. For the son of Aranwë looked not well, indeed: worn and tired beyond relief he seemed, pale even for an Elf, and there were a few silver threads in his once raven-black hair. This had shaken Glorfindel to the bone, for greying was something Elves usually fell not victim to – unless they were fading at an alarming speed. But Voronwë was still much too young for that, even though he had never seen the Light of the Two Trees. Not even Círdan was fading yet, second-oldest to Glorfindel only in Middle-earth, and the Shipwright had not lived in the Blessed Realm, either.

"Yea, 'tis truly me," the ancient Elf replied softly, patting the back of his young friend(1); "And I am truly glad to see you again. Does your father still tarry on these stores, too?" He knew that had Aranwë survived the fall of Gondolin, but never heard what might have become of him.

"Nay," Voronwë, a little embarrassed – he was never one to show his feelings openly – disentangled himself from Glorfindel's arms. "He left with Eönwë's troops after the War of Wrath, thankful for the forgiveness of the Valar. I hope he dwells in peace in the West."

"And what has become of your mother?" Glorfindel asked, remembering the tall, silver-haired, always high-spirited woman from the days of old when Turgon and his folk had dwelt in Nevrast still, and when there was much mingling between the Falathrim and the Noldor, which was how Voronwë's parents came together in the first place. But the Lady Tavariel(2) refused to leave the coasts when Turgon moved his kingdom into the far inland, and so the spouses became separated, for Aranwë, being oath-bound to his King, could do naught else follow him, and took his young son with him to Gondolin.

"She was captured after the destruction of Eglarest," Voronwë said in a strangely flat voice, "and never seen again(3). I thought you would know."

Glorfindel shook his head. "Círdan never speaks of the lost members of his family, and I know better than to ask him. Still, it surprises me that he offered not to take you under his roof."

"He did," Voronwë sighed, "but I cannot… There are so many people, Glorfindel, so much coming and going… and 'tis too far from the open Sea. 'Tis but a gulf, not the true coasts, and I would miss the roaring of waves against the rocky shores, which was the first thing I heard in my life. Just as I miss the peace and beauty of Nan-tatharen(4) that is no more."

"Then you should gather your strength and sail to the west, despite your fears, as long as you still can," Glorfindel said gently, for the obvious suffering of the younger Elf almost broke his heart. "There are meads in the Blessed Realm with which not even the Land of Willows could compare. There you might find the peace of heart you long for so badly."

"Ai, how I wish that I could!" Voronwë whispered in a broken voice. "But my sea-heart is torn between longing and horror every time I just think of leaving the safety of these shores. I wish to go to the West more than I have ever wished aught, believe me. But you have not seen the Great Sea in tis uproar, Glorfindel, not when it was working for the Doom of the Valar."

"It does so no more," the ancient Elf reminded him mildly. "And even the Noldor were granted forgiveness, you know that."

"I know," Voronwë nodded, "and still, I cannot forget what it was like. It still haunts me in my dream, waking or otherwise. Worst things the Sea can hold than to sink into the abyss and so perish: loathing and loneliness, and madness; terror of wind and tumult; and silence, and shadows where all hope is lost and all living shapes pass away. And many shores evil and strange it washes, and many islands of danger and fear infest it(5). Seven years had my labours lasted in the Great Sea from the North, even into the South… but seven Ages became I older by the time I was finally washed ashore in the land of my birth. And though I know well that only in the Blessed Realm can I be healed, my heart darkens with fear to face all those terrors again."

Galdor shook his head in grief. "You will fade away if you remain here much longer."

"That I know, too." Voronwë raised his lifeless eyes to the golden-hued face of Glorfindel and asked: "You have been in the Halls of Mandos, so tell me, old friend: How great the length is the dead have to go? Am I fleeing the horrors I remember just to face even worse at the end?"

"I cannot tell you," Glorfindel answered thoughtfully, "for 'tis different for any one, or so they say. Yet I do believe that there are no other horrors in Mandos than the ones you bring with you – until you learn to leave them behind. For me, Mandos was fire and darkness. For you, it might be the stormy and wild Sea, full of threatening shadows and watery depths. For others, it could be a lonely place, where they just sit and wait. There is simply no way to tell."

"For me, it would be a place of great peril where I cannot help you," Galdor added gently, caressing the pained face of his friends with a fleeting touch of his knuckles. "'Tis true for you or Glorfindel or any of our remaining friends – but more so for you than for any one else."

Glorfindel looked from Galdor to Voronwë, then back to Galdor again, with a furrowed brow. The signs were not obvious, still…

"How long have you been lovers?" he asked finally. Galdor shrugged.

"We are not… well, we _are in a way, but… not truly…"_

"Ten years," Voronwë interrupted him, entwining his fingers with Galdor's, and for a moment the old warmth returned to his eyes. "Ever since he found me in that empty house in Harlond where I have dwelt like an hermit crab. But he is also right in that we are not true lovers, you know. He gives me strength when I lack it and makes me feel safe, but I… I cannot give him aught in exchange."

"What we have has little to naught to do with the yearnings of flesh," Galdor added soberly. "First and foremost, we are friends, who share old memories and the love for both the Sea and the trees. We may share a bed at times, too, but that is of little importance. And 'tis not true that you cannot give me aught, _mellon. You gave me back a part of my past that I thought to be lost for ever… and you give me something to wait for."_

"To wait for what?" asked Voronwë sadly. "You had plans when you found me: you wanted to begin a new life here, in the Havens, to build a house, have a family, mayhap… You gave up all that for me."

"Nay, I have not given up aught," Galdor shook his head, smiling; "delayed a little, mayhap. I still intend to begin a new life here, even if it means that I shall have to let you go. As for the house… do I truly need one for me alone? My sister and her husband have long found the right place, and whenever I am here, I help them to work on the house – raising the walls, digging up the gardens, what ever is needed. That home is mine as much as it is theirs. I would ask you to come and live with us, but you would feel crowded, with all the children and their friends and other relatives around all the time."

"You dug up the _gardens?" Glorfindel laughed. "I cannot believe it!"_

"Neither could I, at first," Galdor replied with a grin, "but in truth, 'twas good work, it gave me great joy. And still, my true life is out there, on the Sea. I might belong to the Folk of the Tree, but I have become one of the Sea-Elves by now. And one day, or so I hope, I shall be the one who takes Voronwë to the West where he can find healing."

"Even though you would not stay there with me," said Voronwë with a weak smile. "Not yet, anyway. You would come back here, would you not?"

"That I would," Galdor agreed. "A Sea-Elf I might have become, but the Sea calls to me not. Not yet. It might take a long time ere I leave these shores, I fear."

"It matters not," Voronwë sighed, "for I believe not I shall be able to face the Sea again. Ever. I have felt the wrath of Ossë too strongly."

"Ossë is not the only one ruling the waves," a voice, deep and soft and yet so powerful as the very murmurs of the Sea, spoke from behind them. "You fear the wrong Maia if you think so."

They all turned back to the Sea and saw that a great wave rose far off and rolled towards the shore where, by some miracle, it remained unmoved for a moment, like a huge, silvery green curtain before parting. Then suddenly it drew closer and curled, and broke, and rushed forward in long arms of foam; but where it had been broken, there stood, dark against the liquid wall of foaming water, the shape of a woman of great height and majesty.

She seemed to have taken shape from the very waters of the Sea, for her body was gleaming and half-liquid and constantly changing, and it had the same colour as the waves themselves, somewhere between grey and green, and her long, silver hair fell down into the water, glimmering like foam in the dusk, and it looked as if it had no end at all. Her dark grey mantle was like mist in the shadow, and her long gown was deep green and flashed and flickered with sea-fire as she emerged from the wave, nearly at arm's length from the stone pillars of the terrace(6).

She set no foot upon the shore but remained standing knee-deep in the shadowy water, her deep, dark eyes glittering like the silver-coated fish in the starlight. And the tree Elves recognized her and bowed deeply, but it was Glorfindel who dared to speak first.

"Lady Uinen," he said, "your presence honours us."

The Lady of the Seas touched his brow in a watery caress, but her eyes lay upon the haggard face of Voronwë. "I have been calling to you for a very long time, young one," she said, "but you were so deaf with fear that you would not listen. "So I was forced to come to you and speak to you face-to-face."

Truth to be told, Voronwë was not deaf but nearly insane with fear already. The last thing he needed to be told was that he had made the Lady of the Seas angry with him. But ere he could have thought of an answer, Uinen bent down to him and kissed his brow.

"You are part of our beloved Sea-Elves, child, but we cannot help you, not as long as you remain here. I know you are not yet ready to face the Great Sea, but you should begin to prepare yourself for the journey that is to come – and soon. Fear not the wrath of my spouse, for 'tis not for him to decide your fate, and I shall not allow him to harm you. Here, take this as a reminder that you stand under my protection."

Uncertainly, Voronwë stretched out his palm, and Uinen laid a small, twirled seashell in his hand, a seashell in the colour of pearls and hiding one big, shiny pearl inside. As Voronwë held it to his ear, he could hear the far-away murmurs of the Outer Sea in it. Uinen looked at him and smiled, and it was as when the moonlight mirrors on the surface of the waves.

"Keep it on you all the time when you are on a ship, and no creature of the Sea shall dare to harm you," she added, "not even its Lord. But remember, your stay on these shores is cut short. You shall come to the West soon."

With that, she stepped back and seemed to wrap the patiently waiting wave around herself. Then the wave broke a second time, and there was naught else to see but the surf again. Voronwë turned the seashell in his hands a few times – it was a lot bigger than it seemed in Uinen's hand, in fact – then he looked at his friends and smiled wearily.

"My fate has just been decided, it seems," he said.

"I believe so," Galdor nodded, "but you need not to hurry. There are not ships every day that would sail to the West. I was told that the next one would be the Lord Inglor's, when the castle of the King is finished. And _that can take a long time yet."_

"So 'tis certain that he would not remain here with us?" Glorfindel asked. "I thought he wanted to spend a lengthy time on this side of the Sea. That was why he did not return home with Eönwë's host."

"I know naught that is certain," answered Galdor. "The only thing I know is that when the time comes, I am to bring him and his wife back to the Blessed Realm. Those were Lord Círdan's orders, for my ship is one of the strongest and the swiftest." He grinned at his friends. "It seems that I might get the chance to ferry you to your luck, after all."

"Assuming that he will not starve before," Glorfindel teased, pulling the younger Elf with him to the stone table, where they had placed their plates. "Come, we have brought you food. Unless, you want to go back to the Feasting Hall. There is more."

"Nay," Voronwë shook his head with a melancholy smile, "I think I would rather remain here with the two of you, since you are ready to share. 'Tis naught like old friends at the same table, is it? Just like old times."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) "Young" being relative, of course. Comparing to Gildor or Elrond, Voronwë wasn't _that young any more. But for Glorfindel, he certainly was._

(2) A name made up by me for Voronwë's mother. I hope it works. Tavari were the fay of the woods, actually.

(3) We know nothing about the fate of Voronwë's mother, of course (at least I don't). The only facts mentioned in the ÚT are, that she was one of the Falathrim and even belonged to Círdan's extended and somewhat shadowy family. So I gave her silver hair.shrugs And it seemed reasonable that she wouldn't want to live someplace like Gondolin, with no Sea and all stones.

(4) The Land of Willows, also called Tasarinan. Voronwë once got enchanted by its beauty and very nearly missed the last ship that was sent out by Turgon to ask the Valar for help.

(5) These are the same words Voronwë says to Tuor when they first meet in the Unfinished Tales.

(6) This particular incarnation of Uinen has been shaped after Ulmo's appearance to Tuor in the Unfinished Tales.


	5. Chapter 5: Confessions

TWISTED PATHS OF FATE

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:**

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

**Rating: Pg-13, for this one chapter.**

**Author's notes:**

Yes, this is the end of this particular story. It has become unexpectedly serious for the final chapter – usually I intended to write something more light-hearted than I usually do. But Gildor is not easy to contain when he wants something.

The events described here would be continued – in a way – later in "Sins of the Father," which is about Celebrimbor, and the as-yet unwritten Gildor story, "Born To Rule, Born Too Late." Forgive me, Finch, I know you hate it when I promise things in stories I haven't written yet, but I had to stop somewhere, ere this tale became one of those usual multi-chaptered monsters I am so fond of writing.g

**Dedication: This one is for Vorondis, who wanted to know what spoiled the seemingly easy relationship between Elrond and Gildor forever. Also for Finch, who wanted to know what it would take for Gildor to grow up.**

CHAPER 5: CONFESSIONS 

The Sea Festival continued without a break on the next day. Since Elves could go without true sleep for a considerable length of time – and the minstrels provided them with enough stuff for their waking dreams – there was no need for that. Almost invisibly, empty plates were carried away and replaced by heaped ones in the Feasting Hall, new barrels of wine were opened, and the talking and jesting and singing and dancing went on and on, both in the water and on the shore.

Elrond felt drained. After having spent the major part of the day in the Lord Celeborn's company, he finally slipped away when the Tree Lord had found someone else to talk to, and returned to his chambers, in order to put on something more comfortable and have a moment of peace. He loved the life in the Havens, but this time, the festival crowd was simply too much to bear. He needed to be alone.

Changing into the simple grey grab of Círdan's people, he escaped through a back door into the garden and carefully descended the same narrow, hidden path Glorfindel and Galdor had been following in the morrow while looking for Voronwë. That little bay was nearly unknown by any one else but those who dwelt in the Sea Palace, so he could hope to be left alone for a while.

He sat down on the edge of the open terrace, almost on the same spot Voronwë had been sitting when his friends had found him, and looked out, far above the white crest of the waves. He thought of his father who had loved the Sea as much as the Sea-Elves did, if not even more. So much that he was never at home. Not even when his home had been attacked and burnt down by the sons of Fëanor, his wife sought escape in leaping from a steep rock and his sons were taken by his sworn enemies.

Of course, Eärendil had saved Middle-earth, at the end, finally bringing much-needed help against the Dark Lord. But that changed not the fact that his wife had no husband, most of the time, and his sons had no father. Not that they had that much of a mother, either. Elrond knew that Elwing had been right not to give the Silmaril the sons of Fëanor – the events of the War of the Wrath had proven it – but it changed not the butter truth that she had cared more for that cursed jewel than she had ever cared for her own sons.

_Mayhap that was why Elros had turned to Maglor so completely, Elrond mused, watching the ship of his father sailing up the sky, with the only remaining Silmaril shining brightly upon it(1). Whatever Maglor might have don in order to fulfill that horrible Oath of his, he, at least, genuinely cared for them. Elrond had been shocked how fully his brother identified himself with Maglor and the House of Fëanor, but he could understand it to a certain extent. Who else had ever truly cared for them before? Or later, for that matter?_

Sure, there always was Glorfindel. Had been since the end of the War. But even though during the years that had gone by since then a genuine fondness grew between them, Glorfindel had never been part of his childhood. And though the ancient Elf treated him like a son, Elrond knew that Glorfindel only remained on Middle-earth to fulfill that old oath, given to Idril Celebrindal in another life. Only his given word was keeping him here, for his heart was in the Blessed Realm still, keeping the hope that one day he, too, might return.

"Are you still angry with me?" a teasing voice jerked him out of his thoughts. He needed not to look back; even if he had not recognized that voice by its slight, steely hardness, there was only one person in the whole Sea Palace who had a reason to ask that question.

"Of course I am," he answered, sharper than intended. "You embarrassed me before the Lord and the Lady of Evendim at our first meeting – not to mention before the High King – and for what? A silly jest?"

"Who says I was jesting?" Gildor replied in that infuriating, light-hearted tone that made it impossible to decide whether he was serious or not, and sat down on the paved floor of the terrace, just behind him. Elrond rolled his eyes.

"You want to make me believe that you have fallen in undying love with me? All of a sudden?"

"Certainly not," Gildor laughed quietly and rubbed his face against the dark braids, half-loose once again. "I am too young to fall in undying love yet(2). But," he added, beginning to unbraid Elrond's hair and combing it with his fingers, "I admit that I am… intoxicated. You are truly beautiful."

"So are you," said Elrond, slightly embarrassed, though he meant it. Even for an Elf, Gildor was exceptionally radiant. Surely, not the one from Elrond's secret dreams, but still…

"I am fair," Gildor corrected without false modesty, "as all Elves are. Mayhap a little more, due to all that Vanyarin blood in my veins. But I am not the one who walks the Earth in the likeness of Lúthien, even if in male form."

"You would prefer me as a female?" Elrond laughed. It sounded so – unlikely, Gildor speaking such words. Flattery was never one of the Prince's personal flaws.

"I would rather you were a woman, indeed," Gildor replied half-seriously, wrapping his arms around Elrond from behind. "Then I could marry you and have you all for myself, forever."

"I thought we agreed that you are not in undying love with me," Elrond reminded him teasingly, though it was hard to keep the light tone with Gildor nibbling most distractingly on his earlobe. And, of course, he _had to do that on the right ear!_

"Mhm," the golden Prince agreed, "but I _could."_

"You could what?" Elrond turned his head away to avoid the assault on his sensitive ear, with the questionable result that Gildor now started nuzzling his neck.

"Fall in love with you," Inglor's son replied, as if it had been the most evident thing on Earth. "'Tis a shame you were born male."

"That seemed not to bother you last night," Elrond shot back, getting a little annoyed by the whole topic. He knew Gildor had been fed a lot more of Noldorin prejudices, despite the fact that his whole family lived in the Havens where Sindarin customs were followed, but this was the first time he actually heard the Prince _voice those prejudices._

"True," Gildor admitted, "but a merry tryst during a festival is not being soul-bound. Not even by Sindarin measures."

"And, of course, you could never bond with _me," Elrond added dryly._

"Could _you?" Gildor asked, somewhat bewildered. Elrond shook his head._

"Nay, I feel not like bonding myself at all. Not yet. I am just curious. After all, male-to-male bonds are not unheard of among the Sindar… even if thy are quite rare."

"Yea, but we are _not Sindar," Gildor pointed out with a shrug. "We only dwell among them. Do you truly believe my parents – especially my mother – would allow me to bond with an other male?"_

"They have been lenient enough to let you follow Sindarin customs so far," Elrond reminded him.

"They have," Gildor agreed, "for they knew well that it was only for the time being. But once it comes to the choice of my life-mate, they will expect me to follow the laws and customs they have been raised by in Valinor(3)."

"And you will obey, of course," Elrond said with a bitterness that surprised him. Why would it mean aught to him that Gildor followed the strict laws of his people – their people, even if he was of mixed bred himself – in every way that truly counted? They were but casual lovers – and not even close friends beyond that. Still, it bothered him that someone this young could keep the lifeless letter of law in such high esteem.

"Of course I will," Gildor answered. "Just as you will do your duty to _your family and __your bloodline. We are not some stray Wood-Elves that can do as they please. I am a royal Prince of Finrod's House, the next one in line for High Kingship after Gil-galad. I have the obligation to marry and give heirs of my own to our House."_

"And what am I?" Elrond asked quietly. "Am I no-where in that line?"

"Nay," Gildor answered with brutal honesty. "You might be the son of the evening star, but you descended from a female line. You know our law: you would come into consideration for kingship only if I should die before you. Mayhap not even then."

"Because of the mortal blood in my veins?" Elrond asked. "'Twas not a hindrance for Dior to become Thingol's Heir. And Turgon accepted Tuor as the chosen husband of his only daughter."

"Yea, but Doriath was a woodland realm," Gildor waved dismissively, "and as for Turgon: he never named the son of Idril – your father – as his Heir. He chose his nephew, even though that decision caused the fall of the Hidden City."

"So, 'tis about Noldorin pride and keeping the bloodline pure?" Elrond shot back with biting irony. Gildor sighed.

"You know how important kinship and tradition for our people are," he said with a shrug. "Mayhap even more than written law. They would never accept _you as the High King of the Noldor, regardless of the fact that you descend from Melian the Maia."_

Elrond turned and locked eyes with him. "Would _you accept my claim?"_

"Nay," Gildor replied without hesitation, "I would _not. I like you and I respect you, but 'tis not something I would decide on the basis of my personal likings. 'Tis about hereditary laws, and according to those your claim would not be justified."_

"But _yours would, would it not?," asked Elrond bitterly. It hurt to hear this words from someone he considered a friend, even if only a casual one, more than he had expected. Gildor nodded._

"Yea, it would. 'Tis not something you or I can change. Be honest with me, Elrond: do you truly wish to claim High Kingship?"

"I do not," Elrond admitted. Still, it hurt being rejected so utterly. "My gifts and ambitions lay otherwise. But I do believe that _you would very much like to make that claim, am I right?"_

"Of course you are," said Gildor with a strangely grim smile. "You know me well enough. And if Gil-galad cannot take the responsibility to get married and have some heirs, I might even follow him on the throne."

"So you believe leadership is what you have been born for?" Elrond countered, with an equally hard edge in his voice. Gildor nodded with the easy confidence of the highborn.

"Born and bred and taught for leadership," he replied calmly. "Just as you have been raised to be a lore-master and a healer. We are the two sides of the same coin – but the opposite sides… never the same one."

Elrond shook his head in disbelief. "And I thought I would know you! Indeed, I can hardly recognize you any more. You are more like the Lady Artanis than you are like your own parents."

"We are kin," Gildor shrugged, "and though she is not the most beloved member of my family, not for me, we do have similar ambitions. More so than my father and I have."

"And so you hope she would support your claim?" Elrond asked dryly.

"I not only _hope it – I __know she would," Gildor replied with a wry grin. "She might not respect my parents for their lack of ambitions, and she certainly likes not __me very much, but she knows all too well that I am her only chance to come closer to real power."_

"Would you truly give her that chance, just to secure her support for yourself?" Elrond asked in disgust. "Are you so hungry for power that you are already plotting your own little scheme against your rightful King?"

"I need not to plot," Gildor answered, a cold glint in his eyes. "As for now, _I am the heir apparent to Gil-galad's Kingship."_

"Til he takes a wife and has heirs of his own," Elrond countered, feeling his anger rise again. To his great surprise Gildor suddenly burst out in a merry laugh and shook his head in some hidden delight.

"Valar, but you are blind… oh, but it matters not. You will see it one day – soon enough, I deem. But you have no reason to worry for the High King. I know where my place is, and I know the law. I would never assault Gil-galad's position. There will be no need for that."

"You speak in riddles," Elrond complained, more in surprise than in anger. This new Gildor, whom he saw for the first time – and he could not decide if he liked his so-far hidden side or not, though he tended to the latter – confused him to no end.

Gildor smiled that easy, well-know smile again – then he unexpectedly leaned over and kissed Elrond. "And you are incredibly clueless for someone who is supposed to be wise. Calm down. I am not your enemy."

"You might be one day," Elrond warned him, "should you forget your obligation to the King in favour to your own ambitions."

"If you believe I could do so, then you truly know me not," Gildor answered a little sadly, "but let us not fight about what _might come, pray you. Whatever tomorrow might bring, we still have today. Let us not waste it. Would you come with me?"_

"What for?" Elrond asked pointedly. "Do you hope to tame me through the pleasures of your bed, so that I might support you?"

"_Tame you?" Gildor laughed so hard that tears rolled down his face. "Nay, Elrond, no one would ever be able to tame __you. You have both the powers of Lúthien and the wildness of mortal Men under all the Elven smoothness of yours. That is why I still desire you," he added, his voice low and silky now. "Let us make good use of the rest of the festival; we might not have an other chance to do so."_

"For you might turn against me?" Elrond replied with a mirthless smile.

"Nay," Gildor said, suddenly very serious. "For _you might turn against __me, soon."_

"Should you break your oath to the King, I might," Elrond said. Gildor sighed.

"Oh, but I fear I would not need to do so, even. You have sided with the King from the first hour on, and even though I expect not Gil-galad and myself to become rivals for the throne, since he already has it, he will separate us, sooner or later. I honestly wish we could remain friends, even allies, but…"

"There is little hope for that if you ally yourself with the Lady Artanis," Elrond finished for him. Gildor shook his head sadly and embraced him tightly, kissing his neck.

"Let us forget tomorrow, Elrond, I beg you! I know I cannot keep you, for many reasons, first of all being the fact that no-one can without bonding with you for ever, but give me the at least rest of this festival. I need you more than I need air to breathe."

"But we both know you love me not," Elrond replied in slight bewilderment, for Gildor's unexpected plea seemed to come out of no-where for him. "You said so yourself, not so long ago."

"Nay, I do not," Gildor said honestly, but his eyes were burning. "'Tis not about love, 'tis about passion, can you not feel it? We might never want each other the way we do now – at least the way _I want you – but that is the future and this is __now. Lie with me tonight, my very own evening star!"_

"I am not yours!" Elrond protested, though the passion began to cloud his mind as well.

"Not tomorrow," Gildor agreed, entwining his fingers with that wonderfully silky, raven-black hair, "and mayhap never again. But you can be mine tonight. Would you?"

Elrond hesitated for a moment. Their playful tryst had turned into something deadly serious all of a sudden – as if they had reached an invisible crossroad of utmost importance, from which one they would walk separate ways. He felt with a sorrowful certainty that they never would find back to their easy friendship once this night will be over.

But, at least, they still could have this one more night.

"I would," he answered, cupping Gildor's face and kissing him on the lips. Hard. "I shall be yours tonight – and never again."

"Tonight is all I ask," Gildor answered quietly. "Come, let us go in that hidden bower of the backyard garden. I would have you under the stars."

And here endeth this tale.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Yes, yes, I know that he could not actually see the _ship, only the light of the Silmaril, okay? I just could not resist being nauseatingly poetic this one time._

(2) And before anyone gets agitated: no, I'd never buy from the Great Master the highly unrealistic idea that Elves mature at the age of 50 and get married on the spot, just to cease having physical contact some two centuries later.

(3) Which are not _entirely identical with the similarly-named document in "Morgoth's Ring. But I believe that the Noldor in Valinor followed a great lot of them. Maybe the Vanyar, too. Even more so. Inglor being somewhat lenient towards his children might come from the fact that he had to grow up without a father. In my interpretation Finrod and Amarië had secretly exchanged marriage vows before the latter left for Middle-earth, and Inglor was born a year after that._


End file.
